


Bitter Sweet

by Briar_Rose_Bramble



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Screenplay (TV 1986)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briar_Rose_Bramble/pseuds/Briar_Rose_Bramble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pouring out the last cup of tea, she lets it slide across her palate, remembering the demanding insistence of his tongue. The tea has stewed, bitter and strong, and the memory of this kiss only intensifies, making her shiver. Rating for language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter Sweet

Nosty's just wantin' tae call it a day and head back to the squat when he turns a corner and almost stumbles over a pair o' tourists having a domestic in the middle o' the street. He's tempted tae push his way past and carry on his merry way, but something about way the man has hold of the wee lass makes his palms itch, and he finds himself pausing.

Having always been a bit on the runtish side himself, Nosty never could stand a man who tried tae use his size tae get what he wanted. Plenty had tried it on him before, but none had succeeded since he's learnt tae use his fists and his lungs and his barely-together words, screaming and jabbing at the world until it backed the fuck away. The wee girlie obviously has never learnt how tae do this and is currently appealing to the man's sense of honour tae _let go, he's hurting her_ , like it's gonna do alt else but egg the fucker on.

Normally he would nae bother with the like of either of 'em, but the girl suddenly catches his eyes in mute appeal, all pale skin flushed pink with impotent fury, and big, sad scared eyes, and Nosty finds himself moving forwards towards the big bastard with a purpose.

Bully boy's got his meaty paw wrapped round the girl's wrist, almost tight enough tae break it, certainly tight enough to bruise. She's shakin' like a leaf, but the big fucker dunnae care, thinks he owns her; it's clear as day on his big, sweaty face.

Nosty is top dog o' the gang, true, but he kens he dunnae _own_ them. They'll do his bidding sure enough, but only while he's cock o' the walk. Any weakness, any at all, they'll be baying fa his blood. He can make them bide him, but only as long as he can _make_ them, ya ken? This man, with his arms like hams and his feckin' designer polo shirt all tight ocross his chest, thinks he _owns_ her, like she's some whipped little pup.

The man is so focussed on the wee slip o' a thing in his hands that he does nae register Nosty until he feels his fist land just behind his ear. He's a big man, but the blow's a good 'un, and he near drops. He lets go o' the girl's wrist and turns tae look at Nosty with the fear of a man whose always been big enough no' tae get punched before. Coward.

"Ya dinnae listen when she asked ya nicely, so I willnae bother ma sen," Nosty smiles, half bravado, half hope that the man will dare to take him on and give him the chance to punch him again. The first one had slipped sweetly into his veins, makin' him itch for another. "Ya get the fuck away from her, ya ken, big man?"

The big man swallows, clearly no' used to being confronted by someone who clearly innae intimidated by his swollen size. Nosty is under nae illusions that in a fair fight the man would crush him into Lorne sausage, but Nosty has nae intention o' fightin fair. He lets the big guy catch a glimpse o' the blade in his hand and the fight goes out o' him completely, along with most o' the blood from his face.

"Belle?" he demands, half turning to the woman, but keeping his eyes on Nosty and his blade.

"I'd do as he says," the girl – Belle – replies coldly, clutching her bruised arm to her chest. "I don't want you anywhere near me after this." She looks like a strong breeze could knock her over, but she's a fierce 'un alright, holding herself up like a queen

The man swells up at her defiance, apparently unwilling tae listen tae good reason. Quick as flash, Nosty turns the knife so the handle is tight in his fist, and jabs the giant straight tae the nose. There's a crunch as it breaks, and suddenly the big man is on his knees, crying like a wee bairn.

Nosty turns tae the girl, expecting tae see fear or revulsion marring her pretty face, but all he sees is exhaustion.

"You alright there, hen?" he asks, aware that he's already far too involved in the private dispute of this well-dressed couple.

"Yes," she replies automatically. "Thank you."

Then she staggers, almost sinking, and Nosty has his arms under hers, holding her up. She's a tiny wee thing, built like a bird, and her weight is almost nothing at all. She's all folded against him like, and he can smell the soft clean smell o' her hair. She smells like early summer used tae smell, before he came tae this smoggy sinkhole o' a city.

"Aye, you're just peachy," he grunts, looking around. He does nae wanna be near her friend when he finally gets his courage up and gets up off the dusty tarmac, and he does nae wanna leave her there with him either. "Come on," he sighs, tugging her gently along the street. "Let's get ya sat down."

She leans on him the whole way tae the trendy coffee shop down the road. It's no' the kinda place he'd ever go himsen, but Belle sinks into a chair like it's nae place special, one hand still on his .

One of the guys behind the counters straightens up and eyes him all queer like, like he's the one knocked the wee bird about. Some wee lassy in an apron approaches all sof'ly sof'ly an' asks Belle if she's alright.

"Yes, I'm fine," she reassures the girl, still all polite, though she's begun tae tremble. "Thank you."

"Can you no' see she's had a scare?"Nosty demands. "Can ya nae get the poor wee thing a glass o' water?"

The tension goes out o' the room, and suddenly Nosty is nae longer a threat tae anyone, his brashness and his bloody knuckles fading intae the background while they fuss about her, bringing her hot, sweet tea and ice water, offering tae ring her a taxi. There's nae sign o' the big fucker and Nosty gets to thinking that mebbey he ought tae hightail it out o' there before the cops show up and someone remembers what he is.

He's edging taewards the door when Belle looks up and stares straight at him. Seeing him, she stands and falters taewards him like a fawn spinnin' over ice.

"Wait," she calls, and like a bloody fool Nosty does just that. Belle reaches out and hold his arm, like his touch won't pollute her lily white skin, and searches his face with her overlarge eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Nosty," he replies, and it's only half a lie. No one remembers his real name naemore and that keeps things simple.

"Nosty," she echoes. "Thank you. I don't know what would have happened if you weren't there. I've always brought out the worst in Gaston, but he's never been so cold before. Nothing I said seemed to reach him."

Nosty goes still with the effort of nae shaking her offa him. "Get ya sen home, pet," he advises. This Belle will have a nice home, he kens, a thousand miles away from the likes o' himsen or the hulking giant with the bloodied nose, filled with pillows an' flowers an' all that sweet simple shite that gentle women like.

"I'm staying in an apartment near here," she confesses, her hand still tucked in the crease of his arm. "It's only five minutes' walk. I’d feel foolish taking a taxi and was wondering—" here she looks up at him with those big blue eyes, all bashful and sweet, an' Nosty knows he's gonna say yes no matter what the wee thing asks. "Would you walk with me? Just part of the way? It's just that I don't know anyone one else I can ask and I don't—" She falters here and Nosty gets that shiftin feeling in his stomach, like she's gonna cry.

"Dinnae fash yersen, hen. I'll take ya tae ya fuckin' door if ya wish it."

The words tumble outtae him and Nosty's nae sure she will have grasped a word o' it but she's smiling up at him with her big, wet blue eyes and tellin him that he's so, so kind.

She keeps her arm looped through his as they wander back to her _apartment,_ their steps slow and sedate like they're on their way back from the theatre or somesuch. She holds the door for him when they arrive and Nosty follows her up the stairs, his heavy bootsteps muffled by the thick white carpet that swaddles the floor. He's been in plenty o' flats before, but this is the first time anyone's invited him intae their _apartment_ , and he looks around at the polished wood floors and large white walls in interest.

"You're hurt," she states, looking at his bloodied knuckles. Nosty means tae tell her that he's had far worse, but suddenly she's cradling his hand and leading him to the bathroom so she can bathe his wounds.

She's gentle, real gentle, and the antiseptic muck she uses only stings a little, but Nosty can feel his spine itchin with the closeness o' her and the sudden tightness o' the room. _Can she smell him_? he wonders, all sudden like. _Is her pretty nose about to turn up at the Eau de Streets that infuses his clothes; a heady mix o' sweat , dirt and despair?_ She's shed her jacket and it’s now impossible not to notice how soft she is, no' the angular little starling he imagined from her lightness, but a plump wee robin, all dainty and round.

She makes him tea then, telling him it’s the least she can do. It's made with actual leaves, measured out into a hefty brown pot that she's heated over the stove, and soused in water fresh from the boil. Her tea cups are ridiculous, fine white china that only hold half what a man needs to drink, but they suit this little fairy girl down tae the ground. It’s a warm night, but he sucks the tea down gratefully, surprised that he can taste the difference between this and the stuff they serve at the shelter or the caff by the bridge. It's spicier, somehow, more _tea_ tasting that the stuff in the steel urns.

He tries to tell Belle this, stumblin' over the words, and she beams at him. "I've always felt the same."

At her doorstep, when she finally bids him goodnight, he kisses her and get his tongue betwin her teeth before she's shaking her head and telling him she's sorry. He's surprised she even let him get that far, tae be honest. He trudges down her white carpeted stairs, the taste of her still fresh on his lips.

 

* * *

 

 

Belle leans back against the door and lets the air rush out of her with a whoosh, carrying the events of the last four hours with it.

Meeting up with Gaston was always fraught with tension and unspoken recriminations, but she's never truly feared him until that night. His strength used to be impressive, his unreconstructed masculinity somehow making up for his deficiencies in other areas, but he's never used it against her before. She can't even remember what she said that made him so angry, so unwilling to listen to reason, but she knows she'll never forget the brutish satisfaction he seemed to derive from having her so completely at his mercy.

Thank goodness Nosty had shown up. The last thing she had wanted was more violence, but after he had dispatched with Gaston he had been kindness itself; finding her somewhere safe and warm to catch her breath before walking her home.

His shyness about coming into her flat had been disarming, as had the way he had blushed when she had fussed over his abraded knuckles, clucking away like a mother hen.

_Hen_. He'd called her that, a term of endearment she hadn't heard before that night, but one that pleased her more that she could explain. It was a safe, steady sort of name, one which made her feel less like a pathetic, tearful victim and far more like a grown woman.

His kiss had been startling, but surprisingly not unwelcome. He'd smelled like the hot London air, leather and bonfires, and tasted like tea, hot and sweet, his tongue pressingly insistently into her mouth until her legs had weakened and she'd had to decide between clinging to him and pushing him away. As he pulled back and headed downstairs without a backwards glance, Belle found herself wondering briefly if it was the right choice.

She was right to let him leave, she knows, much as she wishes he had stayed. She's too unsettled, too on edge to think clearly, and is in no place to think about starting a relationship and she's never had a one night stand in her life. Whatever unexpected response he had stirred in her, Nosty is all but a stranger to her.

Pouring out the last cup of tea, she lets it slide across her palate, remembering the demanding insistence of his tongue. The tea has stewed, bitter and strong, and the memory of this kiss only intensifies, making her shiver.

* * *

 

It's a full week before Belle sees Nosty again. She's spent most of that time hiding out in her flat or in the bookshops of Bloomsbury, avoiding any of the more touristy areas where her hulking former beau may be enjoying the sights of London. It's cowardly, she knows, but there won't always be a Scottish maniac –Glaswegian, if her research into accents, also known as Netflix, is anything to go by – with handy fists, ready to see off any unwanted attention.

Or perhaps maybe there will be.

She's pulled on her sneakers and her lycra, determined to work the last of Gaston's behaviour out of her system, pounding the pavement that runs along the Thames' South Bank. It's a useless route as far as running goes, broken up by roads and the steady stream of tourists, but it's too nice a day to venture underground to get the tube to a more suitable spot.

She's barely past the National Theatre when a large man blunders out in front of her. He's blond and wearing glasses, nothing like Gaston, but it's enough to send her stumbling off to the side to avoid him. Belle twists awkwardly and her momentum carries her round and down towards the pavement. She throws out her hands to catch herself, tensing herself in readiness for the impact of rough concrete against her palms, her eyes scrunching shut.

Oddly it never comes. Instead she's caught awkwardly,

"You make a habit of this, eh lassie?"

Belle knows who it is even before she turns.

"You seem to be making a habit of catching me," she gasps, sucking in lungfuls of air, exertion and panic having left her breathless.

"Aye, well," he mumbles, helping her to her feet, trying to find somewhere to place his hands that isn't bare skin. Belle's had his tongue in her mouth so she knows that he's not the retiring type, and realises that his sudden deference is for her benefit, and finds it rather touching. "Luckily you're only wee."

"I can't believe we've met twice like this on accident," Belle announces. "It must be fate."

"Aye, well," he repeats, scratching his neck and not quite meeting his eyes. "Fate."

It's then that Belle realises that she doesn't know anyone else quite like Nosty, not back home in the States and certainly not here in London, and that it's quite a pity. "Are you busy later?" she asks, hoping that her instincts are right.

"Busy?"

"Aye, I mean yes. Busy. Are you? I thought maybe you might like to go for a drink. I didn't really get the chance to thank you properly the other week. Perhaps I could buy you dinner?"

"Dinner?"

"You don't have to, if you don't want to," Belle assures him. "I just thought it might be nice."

Nosty pulls a face. "Nice."

Belle grins. "Just say yes," she chides, and his eyes widen as he realises she's caught him in his own game.

"Yes," he concedes with surprisingly good grace. "I reckon I might be up for that."

 

* * *

 

The restaurant is crowded; it might be Wednesday night but it's still the South Bank. They only have to queue for a short while before an overworked waitress with a messy bun of blonde hair leads them to a space on one of the benches and hands them each a menu.

Nosty frowns at the menu before ordering ramen and a lager. "You like all this foreign stuff, eh?"

"I grew up in Sydney," Belle explains. "You get a lot of Asian cuisine there; this is a bit like comfort food for me."

"I took you for a Yank," he observes, snapping the cheap wooden chopsticks apart with surprising deftness.

"We moved there when I was nine. Brits think I'm American, Americans think I'm Australian." It's Belle's turn to pull a face. "Goodness only knows that the Australians would make of my accent."

"And now you're in London? You're well-travelled."

"It's mostly been by accident," she admits. "Most of the time it seems like I'm running away from something."

"Like your big fella?"

"Gaston was a mistake," she answers bluntly, relieved to finally say the words out loud. "I had rather a sheltered adolescence. He was the first man to really pay attention to me. I was flattered."

"I cannae believe that. Gorgeous bird like you? They must have been lining up just tae sniff at you."

Belle bites at her lip, unsure how to react to the oddest compliment she's ever received. Eventually she chooses to go with the truth. "Actually, no one wanted anything to do with me. I was institutionalised when I was eighteen and spent three years there." She meets his gaze levelly. "People tend to be a bit uncomfortable when you're known to have suffered with mental health issues."

He sits back, his chopsticks forgotten in his hand. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm not sure," Belle replies. "Something tells me to be truthful with you. Have I made you uncomfortable?"

"Nah," he announces, at last. "I've met proper nutjobs before and you aren't one. I bet you were in some fancy private clinic somewhere, diagnosed with a dainty wee disorder with a fancy name."

Belle blushed. "Dissociative personality disorder."

"Aye, that'll do it."

They eat in silence for a while, but it's a comfortable sort of quiet. The noise of the restaurant swells up around them; families, couples and businessmen all pausing in their day to eat and chat. Just when Belle begins to wonder if she ought to start a fresh conversation, Nosty speaks up. He toys with his noodles and doesn't meet her eye, but his body language betrays how closely his attention rests on her.

"My da died when I was seven. My mum found a new fella when I was fourteen. We didnae get on." He shifts in his seat. "I was out the house by the time I was fifteen."

Belle senses there is far more to Nosty's story than this, but she also knows not to push him for more when it's cost him something to tell her this much. Hopefully there'll be other dinners like this one where they can begin to fill in the blanks.

It's a tentative hope. Pursuing it will answer the nagging question of whether Belle should stay in London or wander on to pastures new. She doesn't have to make any decisions yet, she knows. For now it's enough to order another round of beers and to watch Nosty's face when he realises that the rice paper wrapped ice cream comes with wasabi chocolate sauce.

For now.

 

 


End file.
